


A Room

by tsait



Category: Swordspoint Series - Ellen Kushner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 04:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsait/pseuds/tsait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus meets the Duke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Room

Marcus stood as straight as he could manage as narrowed green eyes swept over him. In the last few months his limbs had grown longer but not in proportion, and he felt ungainly and awkward, on display to the elegant duke. Sweat prickled on the back of his neck, and under his collar. The cotton shirt was scratchy and uncomfortable, and his shoes a size too small. His clothes weren't new, but they were nicer than anything he'd ever had before.

The duke, on the other hand, was lounging on an armchair, dressed in fine black velvet, limbs twisted in every which way. 

“What's your name?” he asked at last. His drawl was long, uninterested.

“Marcus, sir.” No one had told him what you were supposed to call a duke. He didn't seem upset by _sir_ , but it was difficult to tell what he was thinking at all. 

“Marcus,” he repeated. “Can you read?”

The duke was notoriously unpredictable, and the question seemed innocent. But Marcus feared it was a test of some sort, a double-edged question which he had to consider carefully. He opened his mouth, but didn't know what the duke wanted him to say. “I -” 

“It is not,” the duke began, “A difficult question.” Each of his words filled up the space of ten of anyone else's. 

“Some,” Marcus lied. One wrong answer could see him back on the streets, and surely it didn't really matter if he could read or not. That wasn't what he was wanted for.

“Some.” His voice was silky. “That will have to be corrected, if you're to be of any use to me.” He stretched his arms out and sighed, in a way that sounded too affected to be believed. “My head aches. Leave me now.” It was an abrupt command, but it had no malice in it. 

Marcus blanched. “I thought... I just -” he stuttered. His trousers were no longer crisp and straight, his fingers digging creases into them. If Tremontaine disliked him, sent him back – he felt sick at the thought of what Jack would do. “I'm sorry if I displeased you, sir.” He walked a few steps towards Tremontaine, trying to offer him the same look that supposedly endeared him to men, somewhere between coy and frightened, with his lips slightly parted.

“Stop that.” The duke regarded him coolly. “Is that what they say about the Mad Duke?” he said, rising from his chair. He seemed impossibly tall when he was standing, and ominous too.

Marcus wanted to shrink back, but instead he wet his lips nervously and said, “They say that you have fancies, sir, and that -”

“Just so,” Tremontaine said, with the briefest curve of a smile. “I have many fancies. None,” he said, “Include taking boys into my bed. I prefer my _men_ ,” that word was enunciated clearly, in the midst of the long, languid sentence, “To know what they are doing.”

“I know what I'm doing,” Marcus said quickly, a note of desperation in his voice. “I can do whatever you like, and I learn quickly, if you have particular -”

The duke held up a hand, and Marcus' rambling jolted to a stop. If he had wanted a boy off the streets to teach to read, he could have a hundred, all for free. It wasn't Marcus' business, how much gold he had fetched, but Jack's eyes had lit up at the last letter, so it wasn't nothing. The only thing that made sense was that he wasn't to Tremontaine's liking. His knees felt week. “I'm sorry,” he mumbled, eyes downcast. “Please, I'm certain you can find some use for me,” he continued, his words starting to rush and the spaces between them becoming shorter. “Please don't send me back.” Please please please. Begging had never helped him before, in anything, but the duke was an unusual man and maybe -

“Who said anything about sending you back?” he asked, both eyebrows raised delicately. “Your room is down the hallway, I don't remember which it is. I expect someone will be able to tell you.”

“My room,” Marcus repeated, stunned. _His_ room? He waited, to see if the duke would tell him who he would be sharing it with, or how he was expected to pay for his upkeep. The duke seemed to be waiting for _him_ to say something more, but Marcus wasn't used to being allowed to ask questions.

“Yes, your room,” the duke said finally, as if it was utterly taxing to have to repeat himself. “Close your mouth, you look like a fish.” 

He couldn't think of anything else to say, but he did close his mouth.

"Go," the duke said, folding inelegantly back into his chair. "Your lessons will start tomorrow. Reading and writing to begin, and we will see, after that."

Marcus gave an awkward bow - no one had ever taught him how to do _that_ either - but it only seemed to amuse the duke. He almost stumbled over his feet as he left.

\---

His room was wonderfully large, big enough for a bed and a dresser.

There was a small bundle on the bed, wrapped in brown paper. He unwrapped it carefully, setting the paper and twine aside without any damage, in case the parcel was not meant for him. Inside was a book, and on top of it a large steel key, rusted with age. He searched for a chest, or a locked cupboard in the room, but found nothing. What a puzzling thing to give him. It frightened him, to be alone in this great house, where he didn't understand what was expected of him.

His breath caught when he looked at the door. Even from his place on the bed, he could see a keyhole. Maybe -

Clutching the key he slid off the bed and walked towards the door. The key slid into the hole easily, and he turned it with a click. He sagged against the door, turned around so that he could slide down to sitting, his arms wrapped around himself.

His room.


End file.
